


Ride: Chapter Twenty

by lalazee, pinto_round_robin



Series: Ride [19]
Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, M/M, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-26
Updated: 2015-08-26
Packaged: 2018-04-17 07:56:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4658745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lalazee/pseuds/lalazee, https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinto_round_robin/pseuds/pinto_round_robin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You got the title, right?” Zach says.</p><p>“I'll fucking shove the title down your throat."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ride: Chapter Twenty

The high winds of a storm are rolling overhead as Zach and Chris step out of the stuffy police station. Deep, steel blue swells of cloud and sky hang in the air, thick and heavy with the threatening downpour.

Zach sneaks a look Chris' way, carefully watching him scrub his hand over his face, fingertips digging into his crunched-shut eyes. His broad shoulders remain slumped as his arms fall at his sides and he aims a disparaging look in Zach's direction. Their eyes meet only briefly.

“This way to the dealership, right?” Chris says, jerking his thumb down the street.

“Yeah,” Zach says, falling into step with Chris as they began the short trek to their destination.

So, they'd lost the car. That had been a given. Even without speaking for the handful of hours they'd been stuck in holding, they'd both easily come to that conclusion. It hadn't been Chris' to own in the first place. And while Zach's ass would be thanking him for no longer having to sit in that damned passenger seat, it was more than a little sobering to watch Chris' American dream crushed before his eyes as he was notified that he was now sans vehicle.

Guilt eats a sickening hollow in Zach's gut as they walk wordlessly.

Zach had only experienced a moment's relief when his over-paid lawyer had come to the rescue over the phone. Zach had been slapped with a court date where a fine would be decided, but that was the limit of his punishment. It was his first and only offense, after all. On top of that, he hadn't had more than a quarter of weed on him.

Not that any of that matters to Chris. Clearly.

And Zach can't blame him. They'd both had time to cool down, and Zach sure as hell knows his own epic bitchface had been a product of guilt and stress.

This roadtrip was truly turning into a test of their relationship. Friendship. Whatever this is.

The weight of Zach's travel duffel makes his back sticky with sweat, and he can see small beads of perspiration dot Chris' furrowed brow. It isn't just the weather that's oppressive. The silence is damn near murderous.

Before Zach can muster any words of worth, Chris comes to a halt at the parking lot of what is probably one of the dodgiest car dealerships Zach has ever seen. The lot is sparsely populated with all of ten cars, maximum.

Zach swallows.

“So, this sucks.”

“At least we can agree on that,” Chris says, and strides away, leaving Zach in his wake.

“Fuck my life,” Zach says under his breath, and takes off in a following jog.

***

“You got the title, right?” Zach says as they stand in front of the rusted, grey Ford pickup truck. It has to be from the late nineties. Zach is too afraid to ask.

“I'll fucking shove the title down your throat,” Chris says in deceptively mild tone as he yanks open the creaking door and hauls himself up into the car.

“Rude,” Zach mutters as the door slams in his face.

By the time he rounds the car and gets in – Lord, he hasn't seen a dashboard this ancient since his teens – Chris is already revving the truck to life.

The radio immediately blasts some country – _Jack Daniels kicked my ass again last night_ – and Chris leaves it on as he screeches from the dealership and towards the direction of Route 66 once more.

After what feels like an eternity on the road, but is very likely under an hour, the darkening heavens shatter and rain begins to thunder down in buckets on the windshield. When Chris turns down the yeowling country station to concentrate, Zach takes a deep breath and dives in.

“I'm _sorry_ , okay?”

A length of silence stretches like the slick, black band of asphalt before them.

“Yeah, I know,” Chris says finally, his voice a low murmur beneath the roar of rain. “Same here.”

“I don't really want to fight.”

“Couldn't tell by the way you jumped down my throat.”

“I'd much rather put other things down your throat.”

This time the quiet that bubbles up between them rumbles into snickers, then giggles, and finally stupid, easy laughter as Chris broke his gaze from the road to briefly flick a warm, forgiving glance Zach's way.

“You're a fucking perve,” Chris says.

“Says you.”

“Says me,” Chris says with an affirming nod, eyes back on the road. “Know what I also say?”

“What's that?”

“I'm fucking starving.”

“You're always starving.”

“Okay, but this time I have an excuse. You got us locked in a holding cell for four hours.”

“Thanks to _you_ , _I_ got caught, which led to us getting locked in a holding cell, so by _my_ logic -”

“Suck my dick.”

“Hey, I'm not _that_ hungry.”

Zach's heart sparkles brightly against his ribcage at the sound of Chris' raspy, familiar laughter. It feels intimate in this dingy old truck, nestled securely together on a new leg of their adventure. They are proving to each other that with patience and compassion and a little humility, they can do pretty well by each other.

Chris dials up the radio again when Johnny Cash comes on, and they speed through the storm, side by side.

***

Two in the morning has long since dragged by when Zach unlocks the door to their shoddy motel and stumbles inside with Chris in tow.

They'd hunted down an all night diner and ran through the parking lot like kids, escaping the unrepentant storm that showered them. They'd spent the entire meal making stupid puppy eyes at each other and throwing shade at their bad luck circumstances, barely tasting the food they inhaled.

That giddiness has sparked into something brighter, something a little hotter and more insistent under Zach's skin by the time they reach their room. He doesn't feel in the least bit tired – that's for sure. He's fired up and wonders if Chris can see the insistent flush in his cheeks as he flicks on the lights to their one-bed room.

Chris' hair is mussed, damp, and dark with rain as he cards his fingers through it and sends droplets flying in all directions. With a thud, his bag drops to ground and he grins brightly at Zach with that distractingly perfect mouth.

Zach knows he's staring at those pink, sinful lips. And he can tell the moment _Chris_ can tell because that smile falters into something a little softer, a gentle pursing of lips, an 'o' of surprise.

“So,” Zach says, inwardly startled at the deep gravel to his own voice, “Maybe I _am_ that hungry.”

“What do you -”

Zach is already dropping to his knees, his bottom lip painfully tight between his teeth as he grapples with the button of Chris' well-worn jeans. They smell slightly damp from the rain, and the scent mingles with Chris' natural, earthy musk as Zach works Chris' fly open and watches the beautiful length of his dick spring forth before him.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Chris says in a strangled voice as Zach murmurs an _mmmm_ and takes a test lick of the crown of his cock.

He tastes like every sin Zach has ever imagined doing to this man.

Wrapping his fingers firmly around the base of Chris' erection, hesitation is obliterated as Zach slowly takes Chris into his mouth in one long, deep slide of lips. Chris is a welcome, heavy weight on his tongue, and Zach can't help the moan that rumbles from his throat.

Chris' gasp follows, his thighs shivering just a little as he clenches those long, clever fingers in Zach's hair and takes a tight hold.

Zach's scalp tingles with each insistent tug, jolting straight to his own hardon straining against his zipper. He laps messily at Chris' cock, savoring every taste, every slick, desperate shudder of Chris' lean hips towards Zach's mouth.

The only sounds are sloppy, visceral sucks and smacks of lips and tongue. The deep, dark murmurs from Chris' throat and their mingled huffs and pants of breath.

Zach's jaw aches and he doesn't care. His hands travel the span of Chris' hips and back, grabs at his jean-clad ass and urges him forward. Urges Chris to fuck Zach's face like they both want.

Chris whimpers like he's been broken, and there's nothing more euphoric than the moment he starts to thrust into Zach's mouth in earnest, pumping that cock past Zach's swollen, spit-slick lips like Chris owns them.

“So _good_.” Chris rasps each word like he's been screaming for hours. “So per- you're perfect, _fuck_.”

Zach takes Chris' dick deeper, faster, chokes a little, eyes water, doesn't care and keeps going. His nails have found the skin at the small of Chris' back and dig in, vicious crescent moons as he sees stars behind his eyes and his lips tingle and buzz.

This is everything, this is all there is – until there's _more_ and Chris' hands ball into fists in Zach's hair, yanks him forward and cums without any warning but for a broken, breathy cry.

Zach's mouth fills hot and heavy and he swallows greedily, only thinking, _more, this is Chris, and I need more_.

He sucks until Chris yelps with oversensitivity and drops to his knees weakly, his eyes ethereally bright, his cheeks flushed, his slack mouth unable to form solid words. Chris' lids droop, his lashes two thick shadows as he glances down at Zach's messy mouth.

Before Zach can protest, Chris is diving in, devouring Zach's mouth, licking up the remnants of himself in Zach. Chris's palm, large and hot, cups Zach's jaw, encourages a deeper, slower kiss that threatens to melt Zach into the dingy carpet.

Chris' free hand fumbles at Zach's zipper, and Zach helps him along with numbed fingers. His thoughts can't keep up. Not with the desperation with which Chris had fucked his mouth, then falling to his knees and kissing him like he was the most precious thing on the planet.

It's enough to make him quiver right down to his bones.

And then Chris touches him with such surety, such purpose – tight, slow strokes that wind Zach up and spin him out immediately. He bursts with a gasp of shock, shuddering as he presses his forehead against Chris' damp one and spills out over those long, strong fingers.

Time flickers in and out of consciousness, a stuttering clock that can't keep time as Zach sucks in sharp breath after breath, his brow falling to Chris' shoulder to rest. Chris inhales the crook of Zach's neck and sighs with pure contentment, and it doesn't matter that they're kneeling on the floor of a suspiciously beige motel carpet – the moment is perfect.

Until Zach's knees hurt.

“My knees hurt,” Zach says into Chris' shirt.

“My everything hurts,” Chris says with a grunt of agreement.

Zach snorts a laugh.

“We're getting old. I just want my bed.”

“Who says you get the bed? I was planning on making you sleep on the floor.”

“Don't even joke right now, Chris. I swear I'm getting arthritis just kneeling here.”

They're both laughing as they lazily undress each other and fall into bed. Zach doesn't remember falling asleep or even closing his eyes – but he does remember feeling warm for the first time in a long time.

 


End file.
